I Hate You, Most Ardently
by FanfictionCuresWritersBlock
Summary: What was going through Lizzy's mind in that eternal moment between her rejection of Darcy and his retreat? Heated, fervent hatred and perhaps something else? Based on the scene in the movie adaptation where Darcy confesses his love in the rain. PWP, smut, character study.
1. Chapter 1

Darcy's confession of love had caught her more than off-guard. Even as she felt indignant, offended that he could possibly mock her this way, she wondered what redeeming quality he thought he had that would sway her to his side. Was it just the money? Did he think that was enough?

Certainly, it was not for Elizabeth, especially in light of his slight of Mr. Wickham. Wickham, at least, was agreeable and friendly to her. She could almost believe he might hold some affection towards her, but Mr. Darcy?

"And what about Mr. Wickham?" she asked, her emotions getting the better of her.

"Mr. Wickham?" Confusion passed over his face, then something akin to exasperation.

She waited a moment for him to further answer, but it was clear nothing else was forthcoming. Ire bubbled up in her throat, and she lashed out at him.

"What excuse can you give for your behavior toward him? He told of his misfortunes and yet you treat him with sarcasm."

Even as the words left her mouth, she wondered if she regretted them. He was a gentleman far above a class she could ever hope to marry. She would never have to worry about anything again, much less want for any tangible possession on the earth. The logical part of her, which already was berating her for passing over Mr. Collins's proposal, could hardly bear for her to burn this bridge, which was so very unlikely and clearly so impossible to build again.

Darcy was a handsome man. That, she had to admit, even when she amused herself by listing all of the qualities she disliked about him. Somewhere, it registered in her mind that she should be flattered by his attention—he was, after all, obscenely rich and young for his income, not to mention tall and lean with a broodingly attractive face. She could do much worse—much, much worse, in fact—and yet she felt not the slightest inclination to accept his advances.

She could not imagine living with someone she didn't love, much less someone she very nearly hated, for the rest of her natural life. And in exchange for what? A few fancy dresses, luxurious furniture, and an expansive garden? Those were not the things that brought her joy, and she knew their gratification would be short-lived for anyone, and for her if they brought her any at all.

He spoke again before she had settled easily on any given opinion—she could not marry him, but she was so very stupid to reject him. Much more stupid, even, than rejecting the foolish Mr. Collins. She knew, somehow, though, that it was already too late.

"So this is your opinion of me. Thank you for explaining so fully." He nearly spat the words at her, his eyes filled with hurt and perhaps mortification. "Perhaps these offences might have been overlooked had not your pride been hurt by my honesty—"

This was simply too much! The very picture of pride insinuating that she was at fault? She interrupted him chokingly, disbelievingly: "_My_ pride?"

"—in admitting scruples about our relationship. Could you expect me to rejoice in the inferiority of your circumstances?" He demanded an answer from her with his tone, but it was clear that there was only one possibility he felt acceptable. Her eyes scanned his eyes, his face, his mouth, trying to form a poisonous-enough retort. She was suddenly sure that she had made the right decision. How could she have even considered marrying this unlikable, sorry excuse for a gentleman?

"And those are the words of a gentleman," she scoffed. "From the first moment I met you, your arrogance and conceit, your selfish disdain for the feelings of others made me realize that you were the last man in the world I could ever be prevailed upon to marry."

The response certainly felt stinging enough for her liking, and she felt a burst of energy from nailing its delivery. His eyes immediately revealed that her arrow had struck home, and they searched her, implored her for any sign that there was hope left. Suddenly, her breath caught in her throat—she glimpsed desperation in his face. He wanted her affection so terribly that it shook him to his core.

With that realization, a completely new emotion washed over her, not replacing her anger, but coloring it.

Elizabeth, being a well-read woman, had read a few of those secret books, improper books a young, unmarried girl like her should never have opened. They had taught her about the physical feelings possible when in the throes of love, and they had opened her eyes to a world where shared intimacy between men and women had qualities beyond appropriate and inappropriate. They had opened her eyes to a world where a man could make a lady's heart race and her cheeks flush, where the woman craved the touch that the man gave instead of being forced into it and bearing it with the heavy heart of duty.

Those feelings, of a racing heart and warm blood rising in her cheeks, came rushing back to her at once. Her face tingled beneath the cool raindrops, and for a moment she wondered if Mr. Darcy would notice the pink rising in her face. Some rational part of her mind knew that in her anger and embarrassment, her cheeks had already flushed, but still a different kind of embarrassment rose within her, brought on by just the echo of her improper thoughts.

What in the world had come over her? Never in her life had she been so angry and so mortified. Repulsion and abhorrence rose in her from somewhere deep and fiery, but she wasn't sure if she was going to hit him or kiss him. He was so close she could feel the heat radiating from his skin, she could feel energy radiating from him. A rivulet of rain dripped from his hair onto his cheek and ran slowly down his face; she imagined the softness of his skin, imagined reaching her hand out to stop the water from trailing farther.

Her wrath had brought with it its equally fiery partner, lust. She imagined taking his breath away by kissing him firmly, roughly, finally silencing his arrogant, sour words.

His mouth met hers roughly, and she wondered what sorts of thoughts had been running through his head while she was contemplating her own feelings. His lips were soft, his mouth warm, but they moved with barely controlled anger. Her fingers buried into his wet hair, gripping it more roughly than she had intended.

Before she could fully take in the sensations, she beat her free fist on his chest, not with real malice, but with frustration and rage and hunger. How could he tempt her so when she hated him more than any man on the face of the Earth?

As suddenly as it began, it ended, and he stepped away. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have." His eyes, nearly black, were filled with regret, apology, and embarrassment.

She realized he had mistaken her hand for fighting to get away from his grasp. Her lips tingled with the loss of sensation, and her hand felt like it had been burned by the very heat of him. All she could think about was how much she wanted to be pressed against him again, how complete she felt when she was kissing him.

"No," she said, stepping towards him, "please."

The very sight of him overwhelmed her. His shirt collar was askew, and a gap in the lacing near the top revealed a rounded diamond of bronzed skin. His hair stood out from his head where her fingers had disturbed it. He looked so disheveled compared to his normally meticulous appearance, and in this state of subtle undress he looked more handsome to her than anyone ever had before.

Her step forward was the only invitation he needed. He wrapped one arm around her and pressed her into the stone column. His icy blue eyes bored into hers, and the energy of their argument rose in her again. Her hand gripped his upper arm, her mind torn with indecision—shout or kiss again?

The stone was shockingly cold beneath the wet fabric of her dress, and the warmth of his arm provided a stark contrast in both texture and temperature. His other hand cradled her neck, pressing her wet hair into her skin, as he leaned in to kiss her again.

She felt his nose press into her cheek as his mouth once again devoured hers. She could smell the slightest essence of his aftershave underneath the rain and the smell of wet fabric. He had a hint of stubble on his cheeks, and it felt like fine sandpaper her face as they kissed hungrily. Her eyes drifted shut and the sound of the rain on the ground drowned out her thoughts. She concentrated instead on the feeling of his chest pressing into her, of his pelvis on her hip. Her stomach twisted into a knot and she could feel her blood coursing through every part of her body, she could hear it rushing in her ears. She had never been so overwhelmed by a physical sensation before, and it was terrifying and comforting at once.

His lips parted and his tongue lightly brushed over her lips. She gasped slightly, feeling as if he had taken her breath away. He took her bottom lip between his teeth. He tasted of rain, of cloves, of spearmint. The very energy of him burned her lips, but she wanted more.

She grasped the front of his shirt between her fingers, pulling him closer. As she breathed in, she tasted his breath, felt the extent of his desire for her. His hand moved from her back to rest on her hip and her wet dress clung to her back, giving her the sensation of a lost embrace. Tentatively, her tongue darted into his mouth, desperate to taste him, to get a sense of him, to understand why he could drive her so crazy when she hated him so deeply.

Her hand seemed to move of its own accord, tugging his shirttails out of his trousers. Her fingers traced over the skin of his abdomen. Slowly, they crept through the hair on his chest, making him pull away to gasp for air.

He gazed at her for a long moment, hundreds of unspoken words pooling on his tongue. Her hand fell out of his shirt and hung loosely at her side, wondering what his next move would be. She knew what she wanted: for him to continue touching her, kissing her—she wanted to feel his fire more, deeper.

With one step, he enveloped her in his arms again. His lips pressed into her neck, sending a cold shiver down her spine. One of his hands crept up her back, tugging at the laces of her dress. A stab of panic went through her gut—what were they doing? Were they going too far?

Her breath escaped in a rush, and she gave herself to him. All her regrets, misgivings, hesitations went out with her breath and she gave into her body's desires. What did it matter, after all? If she was going to die an old maid, she owed herself one moment of pleasure. Whatever happened after this moment didn't matter to her now, and just once, she owed it to herself to live fully in the present.

How they got there, she didn't know, but she was once again pressed against the stone wall, deafened by the sound of the rain all around them. Her leg wrapped around his, him buried deep inside her. Her lips parted to gasp for air, and the rhythm of her breath sounded in time to her rising pleasure. His hair grazed her cheek as they moved, his lips still pressed firmly into her neck.

One of his hands toyed with her near their point of union, teasing her beyond her wildest imaginings. A mere hint of a tingle had grown into a roaring flame with so little encouragement, and she wanted to shout at him, angry and grateful, if she could only catch her breath. How dare he have so much power over her? How dare he make her feel this way when moments ago she wanted to never see him again?

The smell of the falling rain on the hills surrounded her in a haze; suddenly the sound of rainfall was masked completely by the sound of their short, gasping breaths. The sound of his pleasure was enough to make her head spin and she was overcome with the desire for more, more. The discordant sensations of the misty breeze and the warmth of his body made her dizzy and all she wanted was to be closer to him, even though there was no such thing.

He looked up at her with eyes darkened by lust, his head tilted in preparation to devour her mouth again. Strong emotion rose inside her as he bent to kiss her, and she gasped out a vehement, "I hate you," as their lips met again. Viciously, passionately, she met his advances, their teeth and mouths clashing with the aggression they both felt. Energy filled her body to its very extremities, and she felt more alive than she had ever before.

A sudden intake of breath startled her. She blinked to find herself staring into the azure eyes of Mr. Darcy, still standing a step or so away from her, still very much dressed and un-mussed. Her whole body tingled with the loss of the all-encompassing sensation, and she struggled to equate it to the image before her, which contrasted so starkly to the image of moments before.

"Forgive me, madam," he said with a hint of spite, "for taking up so much of your time."

She swallowed difficultly as he pivoted and strode off once again into the rain. A part of her followed him, tugging her forward a half-step before she collapsed backwards against a stone column, her heart pounding. She was exhausted by the encounter, and it took her a long while to recover enough to catch her breath and feel the hot tears running down her face.

What a horrible, man. A horrible, handsome, breathtaking, terrible man.


	2. Chapter 2

Darcy stormed off across the grass, the pouring rain cold on his burning skin. He couldn't believe he had suffered such a rejection, though he was not entirely caught off-guard by her sentiments. He knew that he was not a particularly social nor pleasant person. Perhaps sometimes words came to his lips before his brain had thought over their consequences.

He was dying to glance back at her, to see her again. What was she feeling? Did she feel as conflicted, as hurt, as he?

A pang hit him. Of course not. Her burning resentment would shine through her eyes and reach him even here, even though she would only be a silhouette from this distance through the rain.

But they had a connection. He felt it. When he had stepped closer to her, there had been a magnetic attraction between them. It would've taken less than a step to close the distance, to kiss her, to feel her soft, warm skin on his.

He stopped dead in his tracks and felt the icy water rush over him. Never had he been overcome with lust like this. Before a beautiful woman made his heart quicken and his ears color, but the feeling soon passed. It wasn't just Elizabeth's beauty that enraptured him, it was all of her. Long after the quickened pulse and warm skin faded, there was still a desire deep in his gut to touch her, to kiss her, and most of all, to just be with her, to look at her across the sitting room on a chilly autumn day, wrapped in the warm comfort of a cup of tea and a fire in the fireplace.

He felt so stupid. Of course a smarter match would be Caroline, but she repulsed him. Every aspect of her manner was carefully calculated to entice him, but it couldn't be more unappealing to him. Her flighty, pompous demeanor made it difficult not to roll his eyes every time she entered the room. And yet Elizabeth, a woman with no prospects and the silliest family he had ever encountered, bewitched him in a way he could not understand.

And yet somehow he had managed to ensnare the fancy of Caroline, whom he couldn't stand, and alienate Elizabeth Bennett, the only woman he had ever loved.

Love. Yes, that was it, no matter how many times he had tried to talk himself out of it. Long before his wretched confession to her, he had considered all of the other possibilities. Lust was a form of desire, yes, and it certainly colored his feelings for her, but there was something more. It was a much deeper desire, a desire to wake up next to her for the rest of his life, to see her tousled braided hair and wrinkled nightshirt in the pale light of the morning, to hear her easy laugh over breakfast, to watch her reading in the parlor in the late afternoon when no one was calling.

The simple fact remained that Elizabeth had a fire in her. She had a volatile, witty way about her that made her his equal in everything except social situations. In that, she far exceeded him. Her willingness to dance and her easy conversation made her great company, even to strangers. And, she had an obvious disdain for her family's silliness, even as her love and loyalty for them was fast and deep and strong.

But he exceeded her in resources and income. That, of course, should make him the object of her efforts. She should have thrown herself at him from the moment he arrived in town, at least in keeping with the behavior of the other females he found at public balls. He didn't exactly blame them—many of them were desperate as they were without inheritance or prospects, and if they could secure a husband so rich as him they would be comfortable and secure for the rest of their lives. But not Elizabeth. She made a passing comment at him, more an effort to include him in the conversation, but when he (rudely, he realized with mortification) dismissed her, she did not try again.

Never did her manners fade. She was the very picture of a lady, and behaved with a quiet but enticing air around him. Her jabbing words made it clear that she did not forget his rudeness (and that she had overheard his unfortunate words at the ball), but he had hoped that they had fallen into a sort of flirtaceous tête-à-tête that indicated her willingness to entertain his social awkwardness as a quirk rather than a flaw. Clearly, though, he had misjudged her. Or, at least, he had allowed his hope and affection for her cloud his judgment and blind him to the truth. He thought back on Jane and Bingley. He had not seen Jane's affection for his friend, and he had clearly botched that relationship. Isn't it only fitting that his own crash down around him? His best efforts to protect what he loved never seemed to work out in his favor. His heart was heavy in his chest. What hope did he have of wooing her? Clearly so many of his actions had turned her against him entirely. He had made a grave mistake in harming her sister, though he did it unintentionally. Elizabeth's fierce loyalty would make this mistake to most painful of his entire life. Petrichor filled his lungs, and the air felt heavy with water. The weather was telling him what he had already figured out: he needed to mourn the loss of Elizabeth from his life. It was already over. If she thought he was so vile, she was lost to him. Was he vile? His legs started moving again, almost of their own accord. Mud squelched around his boots as blades of grass crumpled beneath his feet. Everything he encountered seemed to crumple under his feet. He was going to be a bachelor for the rest of his life. Elizabeth was the only woman he had every met who was worth having, the only woman who had every persuaded him that married life was something to be desired. And now she had slipped through his fingers, due to his own pompous, controlling actions. He shut his eyes against the rain. He felt sure he could never be happy again. 


End file.
